The Window Year
by wandertogondor
Summary: Their story was all wrong. They met in a cemetery at the dead of night. He smelt like lighter fluid and nearly impaled her with his shovel. And she was wearing orange surgical scrubs with a handcuff hanging off one wrist.
1. Chapter 1

**Surely, I'm insane. Most definitely.**

* * *

**SUMMARY:** Their story was all wrong. They met in a cemetery at the dead of night. He smelt like lighter fluid and nearly impaled her with his shovel. And she was wearing orange surgical scrubs with a handcuff hanging off one wrist.

* * *

It was one of those window years for Dean Winchester. He'd get up, take a shower, check out from whatever scurvy motel he was living out of, and he'd get into the Impala and drive until he was cross-eyed.

Sam was bunkered in at Stanford, and John was doing something somewhere - out of sight and temporarily out of mind. That's why going solo had its perks. Dean could eat what he wanted, sleep whenever and with whomever he wanted, drink like his daddy taught him for as long as he wanted...it was an endless possibility.

If he wanted a banana daiquiri he'd damn well have it. If he wanted to lay sprawled out across a comfortable mattress, he'd do it! No regrets.

So, today wasn't any different from the last hundred before. Dean sat in a chair, case file opened up in his lap, and his foot propped up on the table. He delved into the newspaper clippings and coroner's report at a leisurely pace, feeling free to take a sip of beer if the thought appealed to him. That night, he resolved, he'd do a few back stretches and, while arming himself with a shovel, lighter fluid, salt, and matches, he'd dig up a grave.

Love, Virginia was small and wooded and there wouldn't be anyone remotely nearby to watch him desecrate a grave. It was an easy salt and burn. A smile played across Dean's face...an easy job deserved him a piece of pie at least.

So he went out and got a piece of pie. It was blueberry with a flaky golden crust. He asked the bakery worker for a generous dollop of whipped cream on top and grinned even wider when he was handed the plate. The light cream nearly covered the entire slice of pie. _Perfect._

Life was good and tasted amazing.

Every forkful was like a little slice of heaven and Dean tried to hide his smiles by flipping his collar up to shield his face. He wanted to laugh at himself. Hell, he just wanted to laugh at himself sitting there all alone in that bakery eating a piece of pie and making serious happy faces.

Hours later he was still sitting at the table, all finished with another three slices, just waiting for the sun to go down. Dean was looking forward to be able to head up into the Blue Ridge Mountains in his baby; driving her into the high altitude freely because he knew she'd be able to make it. He wanted to go that little cemetery nestled right between a stream and a white church, standing with its faded boards.

And so he did.

He took out a shovel and a flashlight before walking down into the grassy step where scattered graves were strewn across the cleared area, pine trees towering on the other side of the stream. He found the grave, dug it up, broke open the casket, and did his magic.

Salt.

Lighter fluid.

Zippo.

He was slicked with sweat, relief, pride. Sitting on the grass, watching the flames lick up into the sweeping span of sky. It was a chilly night and Dean didn't want to go back to the Impala for his leather jacket. Instead he scooted closer to the grave, holding the palms of his hands out in hopes of catching some of the warmth.

"Oh, my god." A voice broke through the darkness.

Dean sprang up to his feet and held his shovel up as a weapon. His eyes danced down the tree line until he saw the glint of handcuffs attached to the wrist of a woman's hand as she approached the fire.

"If we were in Georgia, you'd be arrested for camping out in a cemetery." She said, sticking her arms just over the fire. "Not to mention the repercussions of grave desecration."

The hunter furrowed his eyebrows, and looked her up and down. She was wearing a two-piece orange surgical scrubs and had a serial number printed across her back. It bewildered him how calmly she stood over the fire, handcuffs still hanging down from one wrist, and warmed her hand.

She was a psychopath.

"You okay, lady?" He lowered his shovel and warily approached. "Hey."

Her gaze shifted from the fire to land on him. "2,500 bucks and a year in the crapper."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I should know," she went on to say with a maniacal cackle. "You start this fire? Damn, you're the lucky one."

"Yeah, that's me...lucky." Dean rolled his eyes and shifted his weight to one leg. He was standing like an idiot in a cemetery talking to a runaway felon, listening into the night for the sound of dogs barking.

She walked toward him, hand outstretched. "I'm Camille Hemingway. Like the writer."

"Dean Winchester. Like the rifle."

Shaking her hand slowly, Dean forced a smile to match hers. He was caught off guard. He was expecting questions.

_What are you doing here? Why are you burning a body? How're you okay with this? Are you twisted in the head? Sicko._

Camille didn't say any of those things. She just glanced back at the fire with adoring eyes. It creeped Dean out. A hunter who took on monsters head on was actually freaked out by a 130 pound woman who gave him another crazy eyed grin. She held up the wrist with the handcuff attached.

"You got a bobby pin or something?"

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**Good, bad, ugly? Let me know how you liked it :)**


	2. Chapter 2

Dean blinked once. Then twice.

He was soaking in the strange occurrence. It was supposed to be any easy job. In and out. Hell, he ate half a pie over it. But now he was driving with Camille sitting in the seat beside him. He didn't know where he was driving or why he was driving for that matter.

Throughout the ride down the mountain, Camille had dismissed Dean's sidelong glances and forced herself to keep up the appearances. Yes, she escaped a low security prison. And yes, she was grateful that she had someone crazy enough to take her in.

He didn't ask small talk questions. Thank God.

_What did you do? How did you escape? Why were you warming your hands over a burning corpse? Psycho._

Pulling his leather jacket closer around her shoulder, she squirmed in anxiety, hoping her orange garb wouldn't be seen. She had an out-of-body feeling, like she was one step behind the whole world and didn't belong in her skin. Like she was supposed to be someone else at that moment. Someone who hadn't thrown her life away.

"Lemme ask you a question."

_Here it comes_, Dean thought to himself. "Sure."

"What made you want to help me? I mean, even for you this is pretty illegal."

Dean turned the volume dial to the radio down just enough so the music still hummed through the speakers. There was a thoughtful little smile on his face - one which he couldn't totally finish instead made up for by tapping on the steering wheel nervously. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, you were burning a corpse. I don't know if you categorize that as illegal but to each his own."

He shrugged. "And?"

"And nothing," was her distant reply, looking at the window and not at his face. "It's just nice and stupid of you to help."

Almost jeeringly, Dean peered over in her direction for a moment before focusing on the narrow roads. "I think the words you're looking for is 'thank you', sweetheart."

Camille's face closed instantaneously at his choice words. It wasn't in her nature to dole out gratitudes freely. "Pull over."

Doing as was instructed, Dean cringed when she just about kicked open the door and threw his father's leather jacket in a balled up heap in the front seat. His face pinched up when she slammed the door closed with finality and hiked down the road. Unsure of what the hell just happened, Dean slowed the Impala down so the wheels cruised at her pace.

"You're going to get caught ten times easily in those clothes. You're like a walking talking neon sign." He was talking to her through the open window. "Get back in the car and we'll discuss this without getting killed."

"I'll walk around naked if I have to," Camille barked back an eerie laugh without looking anywhere but forward.

"Trust me, I'm all for that, but I got a fast car and you got a ticket to anywhere."

She stopped abruptly and the Impala jolted to a stop with her. It took Camille a moment to wrestle and weed through her thoughts. Was getting back in the car to safety worth her pride? Uhm, _no_. She couldn't turn away a golden opportunity that he was readily offering to get a free ride out. Having come to a decision, Camille leaned down to look in through the window.

Dean was grinning. Smirking.

"I can't settle my debts. I don't have anything to give you in return. I don't even have a penny in my name enough to afford to buy myself new clothes."

That wolfish grin curled across his face. It was nowhere near evil. "I guess you won't be wearing clothes then."

"I like being prepared."

"Don't sweat it." He dismissed with a wave of his hands, facial expressions softening. "I got you covered."

Camille's lips pursed and twisted to each side, trying to suppress the elated smile. "Thank you."

Holding up his jacket, Dean motioned with his head for her to back in the car. "You wanna change right here, right now? I got some clothes in the back and I promise I won't peek."

"Shut up," she yanked open the door and slid back in beside him, zipping the leather jacket up to her chin and just waiting for him to get going before glancing over, straight faced. "And don't sweetheart me, big boy."

Feeling the hostility in the air at that last comment, Dean readily agreed and took his foot off the brake pedal. Just when he thought she could be as cute as a button in her prison scrubs, she scared the shit out of him. Not the cutesy-fartsy kind of intimidated either. She was a stick of dynamite and he was the boy with the box of matches.

"Nice car."

"Thanks," Dean ran his eyes over the dash with pride twinkling in his eyes. "it was a gift from my dad."

"Oh, yeah?"

She was genuinely interested and caught the glint in his expressions. Dean's eyes weren't as bright anymore than they were a second ago.

"The man never let up."

"He was hard on you?" She was answered with a nod. "I know the type. I suppose he never bought you a celebratory drink on your 21st birthday since drinking was already commonplace, right?"

There was no response. No head nod indicating yes or no. Nothing.

"Sorry." Camille bit the inside of her lip, cursing herself but smiling shyly as a back up. "A year in jail and my people skills are still rusty."

"What else did you do in jail?" Dean initialled the conversation and swore to steer clear of the topic of his father. He hid behind his devil-may-care attitude and continued, "Get any ink?"

"No, but I think I might have traded my liver in for some smokes."

Dean threw his head back and didn't contain a laugh.

"I'm serious," she rebutted flatly.

And there was that empty, endless void of unventured territory again. Camille was breaking her senses trying to run a list of potential topic starters through her head, desperately attempting to alleviate the sense of awkwardness that could have been in her imagination. Wouldn't be the first time either. Jail life was hard. Social life in midst of the jail life was even harder. There was the fist fights and the lesbian sex and...Camille did a double take. Yup, just lots of fist fights and sex.

"You heading to Ironville?" She asked when Dean had just met up with Route 60.

"Kentucky? Yeah, I guess I can go through there."

Camille sat up straight in distress.

"Don't go out of your way for my sake. Just dump me in the first town out of Virginia."

"You gotta stay on the down low for the next couple of months. And lucky for you, I'm good at covering my tracks and leaving no evidence behind. So, it's no big deal."

"Don't you got someplace to be, buddy?"

"Not really. It'd be nice to have someone come along. I freelance, you know? The job gets dull."

Hey, it wasn't a total lie. There was an quart of truth in that gallon.

"Are you," Dean recoiled inwardly at the way she started. Not a good sign. "Are you asking me to stay with you?"

Dean shrugged and tripped over his words. "No - I'm just - You would be better off with me - You know, just for a little while. No pressure."

If Camille saw the little smile that had split her face in two while listening to him stumble through the sentence she would've kicked herself right then and there and huddled into a corner out of embarrassment. But she didn't notice the smile on her face but did take note of the way Dean's eyes shifted toward her for a second, trying to shake off his own sheepishness. Her eyes did narrow.

"I'm a convict. I like to listen to the same songs over and over again and I have zero social skills. And I'm screwed in the head three ways from Sunday. Tell me you want that in a ten foot proximity for the next few months."

Dean shrugged and replied honestly. "I wouldn't mind."

"Fine."

"Really?"

"Like you said, I need all the help I can get. And I thank my lucky underwear that I spotted your kick-ass bonfire."

"Square with me here, Camille," Dean put his hand up like he was ready to say something revolutionary and he was, but instead he settled with, "you want a motel room to sleep in? The sun's coming up in a few hours and I could go out and pick some clothes up for you while you slept."

That wasn't what he wanted to ask. Well, yes, yes, it was what he wanted to ask but Dean wanted to ease into that question later. What he really was getting ready to ask was why she had gone to prison in the first place. Why a pretty girl like her had thrown her life away when she couldn't have been twenty-two with her entire life standing ready in front of her. Just like him.

"Anyone ever tell you how awesome you are?" Camille's voice broke through Dean's thoughts.

He smiled his wolfish smile again. "You're the first."

"If it's any consolation." She squirmed in the seat and twiddled her thumbs in her lap. "There's a museum in Ironville that's housed in an old, former tavern that's apparently haunted."

Dean decided to humor her for what it was worth. "Oh, yeah? Do tell?"

"Buddy of mine from jail used to go on and on about how she's heard footsteps in the front hall, and a woman singing in the second-floor ballroom."

_Buddy of hers from jail? How many times has this broad been a jailbird?_ "And - And your friend said she heard these things? Personally?"

It was like a million things were dumped into Dean's brain all at once. He started to formulate plans and routes that'd take them to Ironville the fastest. He calculated pee stops and food stops and emergency puking stops. It would be a perfect trip after he was done with it. He could get there in five hours. He would get there in five hours.

In the meantime, Camille nodded slowly, that crazy-ass grin pulling at the hairpin corners of her lips. The grin that already made Dean want to shoot his own foot before she did it for him. "Why, you like Caspers or something?"

"Something like that."

"That's...cool." A nod in approval was timed between the words. "It's only fitting for a psychopath like you."

Dean snorted, half-inclined to chuckle. "A psychopath like me? You were the one warming your hands over a burning corpse."

"_You_ were the one burning the corpse."

"Fine, fine, fine," putting his hands up in surrender, Dean continued quickly. "We're both crazy. Everybody wins."

There was another lapse of silence that was only penetrated by the sound of Camille trying to cover up a yawn but failing. She slapped a hand over her mouth and nearly choked on the deep intake of air. Nearly doubled over, Camille waved off the sleepy sensation and sat up straighter. The sun was just starting to illuminate over the field of trees and she wondered just how long she had gone without sleep since blowing the joint.

"Get some sleep."

Waving him off, Camille fought off another yawn. "I'm fine. I can stay awake. I'll be fine."

"I heard that one before. Here." He twisted one arm to reach behind her seat, bringing out a striped afghan. "Use this to cover your pants if you're worried."

"Cute."

"It's not mine. A girl left it in here."

He was answered with an incredulous look.

"She was a friend."

Lies. She was an exotic dancer.

Taking the soft blanket from his hands and spreading it over her knees, Camille looked appreciative as she huddled against the door, leaning the side of her head against the window. "I owe you one," she sleepily muttered before settling into a well-needed sleep.

Dean reached over to smooth the afghan over the side of her leg so the orange would be totally covered and laughed under his breath. "Or twelve, you crazy bitch."


	3. Chapter 3

The jail scene started to lose its appeal around the fifth or sixth visit. By that time, Camille had gotten used to sprawling across cold cots with lumpy mattresses and flat pillows. She'd even gotten used to the nasty food, and the bright orange scrubs, and the seedy security guards.

Gotten used to it all by the time she was twenty.

And that was only the first four years.

It had all started on her sixteenth birthday. Everything. All the shit and the agony and the self-resentment started on her Sweet Sixteen. Camille had woken up on her birthday expecting to embrace the saccharine arms of youth. Instead, Time gave her the thumbprint of age. Right there. Right on her forearm.

Four letters. One name.

She had scratched at it until her skin was ribboned into ugly red welts, seared up and down where her fingernails had made impact.

The very first night Camille spent in prison she stared at her arm for most of the night, wondering how such a little thing could have ruined her chances of living happy and free. Camille didn't know how or why but it was surely because of that name. The person behind that name was the genesis of all her misery.

"I miss you." She disdainfully said one night as an inmate at Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women. Camille was looking out the barred window, and out into the perfect Virginian night. "I miss you, Dean. I've never even met you and I miss you."

*****SUPERNATURAL*****

Camille couldn't remember walking from the Impala to the motel room when she woke up. She couldn't remember kicking off her shoes and easing into a clean, soft, weightless bed. Half-inclined to fold her arms under her head as a makeshift pillow, as she was so used to doing over the years, Camille was pleasantly surprised that motel pillows were like a fluff of cloud.

At that moment, it wouldn't have matter if her prosecutor had carried her in! Camille burrowed under the covers of the microfiber blankets and sprawled across the width of the bed. The muscles in her arms and legs pleaded in pain every time she shifted but Camille was more than willing to stay in one position for the majority of the morning.

It wasn't until she heard the door lock rattle open, followed by footsteps and the crinkle of shopping bags, that she believed her situation was real.

"You awake?" Dean asked while setting the bags on the desktop, glancing at her bed.

Camille cautiously peeked over the edge of the bed sheets. "Yes."

Ignoring her eccentricities, Dean started laying out the contents of the shopping bag on the desk. "I got you some hair dye. It's like..." He squinted. "light brown."

"Strawberry blonde."

He swiveled his head. "Come again."

Camille sat up in her bed, holding the bed sheets in between her folded legs. "The dye is strawberry blonde, not light brown."

"Whatever you say." Dean shrugged and turned back after a moment to pull out a few shirts and a pair of jeans. He neatly laid it all out on the edge of her bed before straightening his back to square his shoulders with hers. "So, how're you feeling?"

The words caught in her throat as soon as her lips parted. "I'm...okay."

"Have I mentioned that you're not a very good liar?"

Camille lifted one shoulder abjectly. "Never had to get good."

Nodding his head in acceptance, Dean continued, "I did do some research on you while you were passed out. You were arrested nine times for arson."

That seemed to get Camille's attention. Her eyebrows shot up and she poised one finger to reply, as if she was proving him wrong with a vital piece of information. "One of those times was for public urination." Her eyes got wide and slightly crazed. "It would have helped if I hadn't pissed on a police officer."

Dean blinked, mouth hanging agape. "You're insane."

"All the best people are," was her reply, face nearly split in two by a Cheshire grin. It was wide and toothy and didn't appear to be disappearing anytime soon. She wet her lips. "I'm a sociopath and a pyromaniac. What are you?"

"Normal."

"You are such a good liar, Dean Winchester, it's sad how obvious it is."

"Huh." Dean retorted more to himself, crossing his arms, and gestured to the stack of clothes, dismissing the conversation. "I picked up some clothes for you. Hope they fit."

Camille extended her arms to pick up the nearest shirt and inspected the short sleeves critically. "Ehhh."

"What?"

"I," she began slowly, carefully setting the shirt back down, "I don't like short sleeves."

Dean's eyebrows furrowed. "It's, like, a hundred degrees outside and you wanna wear long sleeves? You want me to go out and look for a nice turtleneck?"

In a split second, Camille bound off the bed and toward the bathroom with the handful of new clothes in her arms. "It's fine. No big deal! Thanks."

The bathroom door slammed shut.

Finding a few moments to himself, Dean rushed to the table with a case file at ready. He spent an extra few hours at the local library after scouring Wal-Mart and Sears. Now, he attempted to soak up as much information as he could before she came out. _Okay_, he thought, _concentrate Dean. Three kids disappeared in that hotel ten years ago. Think! It's a decade gig, right? It could be a spirit? Ghost? Lamia?_

He rotated his phone against his palm, thinking how much easier it would be if he just called his dad. But, Dean checked the flip side, if he called for backup, his father would hitch a ride for another few hunts before parting ways. It had been such a pleasant few months without anyone holding him back, Dean promptly decided against it. The phone went into his pocket. All his concentration went back into the newspaper clippings once again, sitting in silence for near an hour.

"Mmm," he mused, "could just be a myth."

"Can we get something to eat? I'm starving." Camille rolled up her orange scrubs, wet hair swathed up in a towel. She was wearing jeans that were entirely too baggy for her and a shirt that was entirely too small. "I look like Courtney Love. Got it. Stop staring."

"Woah, woah, woah," Dean's hands shot up defensively, "we don't talk about _her_. What happened to your arm?"

"Nothing." She stammered shyly, hiding her left arm behind her back. "I just got some ink that I'm not proud of."

So, Dean let it go. He questioned his letting go abilities when she sat in shotgun and scratched at her forearm like she had been doing it her entire life. What the hell was under there that she was so ashamed of? Here's a better question: why did he care?

_I don't. _Dean thought to himself. _I don't care. Anyone would be curious. I blame Camille. She's just feeding my curiosity with her stupid face and her stupid tattoo. _

He tapped on the steering wheel with his thumbs in a poor attempt to parallel the music streaming through the speakers. It was a weak excuse to take his mind off her and concentrate wholly on the job that was just in the case file stuck under his seat.

Three kids. In four months.

Witnesses heard a woman singing before each kid disappeared.

Two boys. One girl.

Uneven time gap between each disappearance.

"That looks good!" Camille pointed across main street toward a barn-like building. Her strawberry blonde hair, which had been streaming out the open window, now settled into a puffed out mess around her head. "Totally worth checking out," she ran her hands through her hair and said.

Dean swung the car into the small parking lot and pulled the gear to park. It was an unimpressive shack. He'd just as well buy food out of an abandoned bus on the side of the highway.

"Hillbilly's Restaurant," he read out loud. "You sure?"

Camille would have answered if she was still in the car but she was halfway through the whitewashed doors, figuring all too soon that Dean would be griping. "Come on!" She called and motioned to him with cruder hand gestures than Dean had been used to seeing on a woman.

When he talked himself into going into the restaurant Dean Winchester was pleasantly surprised. The interior was wide and roomy, filled with little tables, and a bar cornered to one side. Camille was sitting by the windows that overlooked the front of the store, a softer smile on the hairpin curves of her lips. The sun felt warm on her face and Dean could tell that that meant freedom to her.

He ordered two beers with a swipe of his hand in the waiter's direction and sat across from her, following her gaze to the wide fields on the opposite side of the road. "It's a nice view."

He didn't execute the conversation with much conviction. It was as interesting as watching paint dry but she nodded anyway.

They were looking at the same spit of land but they saw such different things. While Dean just saw grass and jimmies of trees in the distance, Camille saw a giant, beautiful world. She saw the birds in the bluest, clearest sky and the little insects buzzing around the daisies. She saw the trees that seemed so small but knew that if she got close enough those same trees would be twenty times her height. A soulful sigh whistled between her lips.

Dean decided not to worry about it too much. Not like she was going anywhere. She had nowhere else to be but with him. Like he said, he had a fast car and she had a ticket to anywhere. The offer still stood.

The waiter brought out the beers and stood by the table waiting for an order.

"We - " Dean was about to ask Camille what she wanted but didn't bother as she was preoccupied at the window. "Two cheeseburgers, extra onions on one of them. Man's gotta have his onions." He muttered when the waiter disappeared into the kitchen.

She hadn't heard him. Or she had heard him and didn't care to throw in her two cents. Dean expected something on the lines of: french fries are an equivalent to onions in a cheeseburger. But that one didn't come.

"Want some french fries?" He asked when the food was set on the table, and was shaking the salt dispenser over his pallet of fries.

Camille turned her head slowly. "I don't like salt."

"You, like, some health nut?" His hand paused on the way to the ketchup bottle.

"Let me rephrase this so it's clearer to you, Dean," She was leaning on the table, looking him straight in the eyes. "I hate salt. I hate the way it smells, the way it feels, the way it looks, and especially the way it tastes. Capisce?"

Dean was wide-eyed and slightly terrified, but the moment the bottle in his hand made a farting noise as the ketchup splattered across his burger, Camille was smiling and picking at her own food. She seemed to be coming in and out of focus against the rays of sun, light bending around her profile.

"You say capisco."

"Uh," he shook off the strange sensory shit that sudden struck the wrong cord in his brain, "capisco."

He bit into the burger and it was like - Dean was out of metaphors at the moment, but it was like something _so _nice. He took another bite and from there he was just sailing. Drifting through the burger, bite to bite. Dean hadn't seen heaven, but he was almost sure that heaven was only adequate compared to the moment his teeth sank into that cheeseburger.

"Need an ambulance?" Camille was holding her burger halfway up to her mouth and staring over it at him. "You seem to be enjoying this too much."

Dean took his time with the last bite, shaking his head in a refusal to talk just yet. It wouldn't be a nice break. He wanted to take his time and savour the last of that burger for all it was worth.

"Here." She set her untouched plate in front of him, burger and fries.

"You said you were starving."

"I wasn't lying. It's just that it's more fun watching you eat that burger than eating it myself."

Dean's smirk was obscured by a handful of fries. "Stop flirting, Hemingway. It looks better on me."

Rolling her eyes, Camille mockingly scoffed. Her hands went up to pull at the loose strands of her hair, twisting the tendrils into a braid.

"Like this. I'll show you." Dean swallowed and said to her, "Hey, Camille, sweetheart, what else can you do with your hands?"

"Strangle you."

"Kinky. Show me one night."

"What part of sociopath and pyromaniac passed your radar?" She had her eyes narrowed and her head cocked like he was the most interesting specimen in the room. "Dean, I hope you realize that I'm the type of girl that dreams about walking over the mangled bodies of my enemies in red high heels and a little black dress. The whole jailbird phase sorta delayed the process so I just haven't gotten to it yet. But I can easily make you my first victim. Is that what you _really_ want?"

Dean shook his head stupidly.

"Good," she said in little less than a whisper, sitting up straight. "that _would _be regrettable. I would hate to maim a pretty face like yours. So, keep that in mind the next time you call me sweetheart."

Dean made a point not to argue. He polished off his plate, drank his beer and Camille's, paid the bill, and held the door open for Camille. She hadn't eaten a thing. He decided that he would be worried this time.

"Camille?" He asked cautiously once he sat behind the wheel.

"Yes?"

"You didn't eat."

"And?"

"You've been running from the law for I don't know how many miles, slept for nearly fourteen hours, and not in the least bit hungry. That's a bit strange, don't you think?"

Camille nodded, and then broke into an incredibly weird, kind of sheepish grin. On anybody else it would be terrible. On Camille it was kind of gorgeous. A welcome change from the psychotic, stomach-aching grins that constantly knocked Dean's train right off the tracks. "I just got so caught up with the open fields. Eating didn't seem as - " She stopped mid sentence, working off her smile. "as worthwhile."

"Well," Dean cranked the gear to drive and took his foot off the break, "we're going back to the haunted hotel, okay? If your freedom juice wears off and you finally realize that you need to food to survive, eat."

Only once she agreed did the Impala glided forward from Hillbilly's and down the road, past the field that Camille just never could take her eyes off of until it slowly sunk into a wall of trees beside an interstate.

Dean had his eyes on the yellow lines, easing his foot on and off the brake pedal.

Four months.

Three kids.

Two boys.

One girl.

* * *

**Thank you for reading! I do apologize that it's going a bit slowly. **


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